


Our Scars

by Lady_Ravyn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Co-Parenting, Confessions, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Making Love, Revelations, Romance, Scars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ravyn/pseuds/Lady_Ravyn
Summary: It took a while for things to feel normal at 221-B Baker Street, or at least for John Watson. 10 months after moving back into the flat, along with Rosie, he felt like he had settled into a sort of domesticity with Sherlock Holmes.Or what happens when John and Sherlock discover each other's scars.





	

It took a while for things to feel normal at 221-B Baker Street, or at least for John Watson. 10 months after moving back into the flat, along with Rosie, he felt like he had settled into a sort of domesticity with Sherlock Holmes. It had been hard, to readjust to one another and a baby, and for a while, tensions ran high between the two. Sherlock had to learn how to pick up after himself, and not leave dismembered body parts or various beakers filled with possible toxic waste lying around. He also began to learn all he could about Rosie and what she would need. John was overwhelmed at how taken Sherlock was with her, could feel his heart clench every time he caught the detective staring down at her sleeping face. 

On the other hand, John had to relearn Sherlock. He had changed since his faked suicide. John couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when he noticed, but suddenly Sherlock appeared much more… human. His emotions were not hidden behind the mask of indifference, his clever eyes not as guarded. John was thrown for a loop when he noticed, but he couldn’t help but be happy about it. 

“John?” Sherlock’s quite baritone broke John out of his thoughts. He turned from where he had been watching Rosie sleep to see Sherlock standing right outside the door with a crease deepened on his forehead. John could deduce ( _oh, God, Sherlock is rubbing off on me after-all_ ) that he had been up here long enough to worry the detective. John gave a small smile, leaning to quickly kiss the top of his daughter’s head before standing to join him at the door. He was momentarily distracted by the nightlight casting soft golden hues on the man half hidden in the shadows. John felt his heart give a flutter at how… beautiful the taller man was. 

Shaking his head of those thoughts, John ushered Sherlock further down the steps to quietly close the door on his bedroom. They walked together down to the living room where John immediately began to boil some water for evening tea. Sherlock took up his customary position on the couch with a swirl of his dressing gown. John couldn’t help but smile at that as he rested his hip on the wall. He found himself doing that frequently, smiling at the things that made Sherlock so Sherlock. He felt his heart do more than a few flips throughout the day. He dreamed of the younger man, in ways that made his cheeks flush and gut clench. John had always found the detective intriguing, mesmerizing, and so bloody brilliant. He knew he held the man close in his heart, cared enough to kill to protect him. It wasn’t until he watched Sherlock jump from the roof of that hospital that John realized the depth of his feelings. He had _loved_ Sherlock. Somewhere in his beaten heart and under the “I’m not actually gay!” mindset, he had fallen for the man. 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock’s voice once again cut through his foggy mind. John’s head snapped up to see that Sherlock had already began to prepare the tea, pouring it into the two mugs. 

“Oh, well. Yes. Suppose I was in my own mind palace.” He teased reaching for his tea with a small smirk. He held back the snicker as Sherlock shot him a disgruntled look. 

“Really, John, I am not sure palace would be the best description. A room perhaps?” He felt the laugh slip through his lips then, and caught the tilt of Sherlock’s lips in return. They moved to sit in their chairs then, enjoying the heat of the fire on a particularly cold London night. 

His thoughts wandered back to their failed stag night, how close they had sat together and legs dancing around each other. He could still feel Sherlock’s leg beneath his hand as it had lingered. How open he had been and his laughter. John followed his trail of thoughts to the wedding, to the speech that was branded on his heart. ‘John Watson, you keep me right.’ He would have kissed the man right there in front of his new wife if it wasn’t for the fact Sherlock was making a spectacle as a cover to catch the murderer. 

“John…” Sherlock sounded genuinely concerned then, watching John for any clues as to what had him so off kilter. 

“Yes?” John avoided his gaze by taking a sip of his tea and trying to get a break from his thoughts. 

“What is on your mind?” Sherlock kept his eyes on John’s, searching as if he could read directly into his mind, heart, and soul. _Jesus_ , John thought shifting to run his fingers through his hair before standing up. _Get ahold of yourself Watson_. 

“I’m fine, Sherlock.”

“Funny, you don’t look fine.” Sherlock watched him calmly as he moved towards the bathroom, obviously looking for a way out of the conversation. 

“I’ll be in the shower for a bit. Perhaps some telly after, yeah?” John mumbled before literally bolting to the bathroom. It was a relative safety from the prying, brilliant, deducing eyes of his best friend. _Alright, just take a hot shower and get yourself under a semi-control_. John tried to talk himself out of his almost panic as he stepped under the hot spray of the water. Ever since a close call the previous day during a case, John had felt like his world had tilted on its axis. His whole world was composed of Rosie and Sherlock, and he had almost lost the second half **again**. He had almost had to live in a world where there wasn’t a consulting detective **again**. A world without those changing blue eyes, unruly hair, and sharp cheekbones. A world without **his** Sherlock. 

John doubled over then, gasping in breaths at the emotions and raw fear coursing through him. He had locked it away after Sherlock narrowly avoided the bullet to his beautiful brain, focused on the fight, but now he had no distraction. With a curse and a sudden need arose to see his best friend, to confirm that he was _still alive_. Wrapping a towel around his waist, John swung the door open to the flat, Sherlock’s name spilling frantically from his lips. His eyes searched then, unable to find the detective. 

“Sherlock!” He could hear through his voice, trembling and uncertain. 

“John?” John swirled around, wide eyes landing on the half-dressed man coming out of his room. Sherlock’s eyes were worried as he immediately grabbed John by his shoulders leading him to sit. “Breathe, John. Breathe.” He gasped out his breaths, trembling hands locked around the thin wrists of his partner. “Deep and slow, come on now.” He could feel thumbs stroking along the sides of his neck then, checking his pulse and feeling it calm. John forced his breathing to slow down, his eyes locked on the man in front of him. 

“You-you’re okay?” John’s words were stilted. He reached to lay both hands on Sherlock’s face and pull him closer. “You’re really okay?” He knew somewhere that he was being stupid, that he needed to shut up and get ahold of himself. He watched surprise flicker over Sherlock’s face before understanding settled. 

“Yes, John,” he whispered laying one hand over his on his cheek, the other landing on John’s knee rubbing soothing circles. “I am perfectly alright.” John sagged against him then, his forehead leaning to rest on the shoulder closest to him. Sherlock easily moved so he knelt between the older man’s knees and wrapped a slender arm around a thicker waist, the other cradling his still wet head. “Everything is going to be okay.” The detective spoke quietly in John’s ear, further calming him. John sighed then and proceeded to hug his friend, feeling every expanding of lungs, the breath hot against his shoulder, and the strong heart beating beneath his touch. 

They stayed that way until John felt more in control and then slowly parted until they could see the other. Sherlock eyed John warily, probably deducing if he was truly alright. John himself was stuck between gratitude and utter embarrassment at how he had broken down. As John slowly began to remove his hands from Sherlock’s back he realized two things. First, he was utterly naked with only a thin piece of terrycloth covering himself. This of course was made even worse considering Sherlock was kneeling between his knees. Most importantly, however, beneath his fingers John could feel the raises of scars. Scars that felt so thick, John had to gasp. He watched Sherlock tense up and immediately moved away as if burned. 

“John,” He started but John wouldn’t give him the chance. Using his strength and speed, John stood and turned Sherlock around, holding his shoulders in a death grip. He felt the breath leave him then as if he had been punched. Sherlock’s back was an array of crisscrossed scars, some raised, some just discolored. John ran his fingers along them trying to come up with any reason why a man, even being a formed addict would have whip marks covering his shoulder blades to his hips. John traced a long one that seemed to run from his left shoulder down to his right hip. He would bet money some continued beneath the silk pajama bottoms he was sporting. 

“My God, Sherlock. What, Where!?” He knew he had tears building in his eyes, but he couldn’t really stop them. _They were opened repeatedly…_ John felt as if he was going to be sick just then. He took a trembling hand off the mutilated back and moved to look at Sherlock’s face. It was full of… shame, and a good bit of self-loathing. He shrugged a slim shoulder, crossing his arms in an obvious defensive maneuver. 

“Serbia, John. I may not have really died the day I faked my death, but I did enter hell.” John felt the breath leave him for the second time in as many minutes. His heart constricted for the man in front of him. He had done everything in his power to bring down a madman, to protect the people and city he held dear. He had taken lashings, both verbal and physical, had essentially killed himself, all for the sake of what was right. Sherlock had told him once about Moriarty accusing him of being on the side of the angels, and him responding that he was not one. He remembered thinking then that Sherlock never gave himself the credit he deserved. Now, however, John knew that Sherlock wasn’t just an angel. He was a force of nature, a beautiful mind and heart wrapped in an even more stunning temple. _Sherlock…_

“John, it was not as bad as it looks. The damage could have been more extensive and I did not even require surgery!” Sherlock was getting antsy now, his eyes looking anywhere but John. “My skin is sensitive you see, I am prone to scarring as it is. Besides I don’t.” John grabbed him by his face once more, effectively shutting him up. John pulled him closer so he could look him level in the eye. 

“You are amazing, Sherlock Holmes. A fucking miracle,” he whispered, watching his eyes widen and a blush brush his cheeks before he pulled those parted red lips to his own, and John Watson finally, _finally_ , kissed Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> Please review! Also, I am American. So not the best with European slang. Sorry!


End file.
